


Interior Decorating

by tarysande



Series: Rose Trevelyan [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only a little interior decorating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interior Decorating

All the way back to his tower, Cullen remained tense, expecting yet another summons from Leliana or Josephine, followed by yet another tedious mission or meeting or blighted  _endless_ conversation about all the things that needed doing before the Inquisitor’s return to Skyhold. Listening to Leliana extol the virtues of changing the draperies in the main hall or finally having the hallway to the War Room repaired and cleared of rubble was infinitely more exhausting than a day spent with sword in hand. He considered spending the rest of the afternoon in the training yard, but a vast yawn and the beginning of a truly prodigious headache changed his mind.

When he entered his tower, he flung himself behind his desk and was halfway through the Inquisitor’s latest field report before he realized the room above him was not quiet. He blamed the headache for his distraction. Very slowly, he lowered the report and reached instead for the knife at his belt. Before he could draw it, however, a crash above was followed by an unmistakable peal of laughter he’d have recognized anywhere.

His heart stuttered, and his breath caught as relief flooded him.

No one had told him she was back.

No matter how many times she left and returned, it never grew easier. He knew—he knew better than anyone—how easily something could go awry on the field of battle, how quickly victory could be snatched away and replaced by crushing defeat, how easily an arrow or a blade could turn and find its mark. Her title—her position—didn’t make her immune. Indeed, he knew it made her a target, and every time she left, he dreaded the possibility that instead of her smiling face, this journey might end with a pale-faced messenger or grim Leliana bearing the worst of tidings.

Shaking his head, he banished the sudden dark turn of his thoughts, and strode to the ladder. The laughter above promised that this expedition, at least, had been a successful one.

Still, the sight that met his eyes as his head emerged was not anything like what he’d been anticipating. He blinked, tossing his head as if tossing might clear it and return his chamber to the state he’d left it in when he’d leapt from bed at Leliana’s urging countless hours earlier.

Instead of his slope-mattressed bed, a new four-poster stood against the far wall, red and gold draperies pulled back to reveal a heap of pillows clothed in new linens. Piles of luxurious furs rested at the end of the mattress; he thought he recognized one as that of a notoriously hard to kill Great Bear. It took a great deal of willpower not to immediately fling himself flat, and even more to swallow yet another yawn.

The bed, however, was not even the greatest change. Piles of broken beams and ancient detritus had finally been cleared. New wood planks, polished and gleaming, had been lain over the old upon the floor, and draped with plusher rugs to match the bedding. Instead of a single chest and the old barrels he’d been using as furniture, proper replacements had been found. One corner now boasted a well-lit nook with two chairs; in the other, a wardrobe and armor stand presided where once only a hole in the floor had been.

Though the roof still gaped a little, the invasive tree had been pruned back. Rose Trevelyan stood beneath that remaining wound, gazing up at it, hands glowing with energizing magic to keep a heavy beam aloft. Hammering echoed from above. Not wanting to disturb her and risk an accident of beam-dropping, bone-crushing proportions, Cullen said nothing, but she evidently sensed him nonetheless, because she turned her head and offered a shamefaced smile. “Leliana was meant to keep you busy at _least_  another hour,” she said without preamble, as if nothing at all was odd about the leader of the Inquisition standing in his bedchamber, covered head to heel with sawdust, curls in sweaty disarray, a smudge of dirt marring her cheek. Magically fixing his roof.

“I ought to have known,” Cullen said faintly. “She was even more insistent than usual, and her tasks even stranger. She and Josephine cornered me to discuss recent court fashions. At length. Maker, I’d no idea shoes came in so very many blighted varieties.” Cullen shifted his weight to his left foot, shoulder lifted in a helpless half-shrug. “You needn’t have troubled yourself—”

Rose laughed again, wrinkling her nose. “Either you were going to fall through the floor, or what was left of the roof was going to fall on you. Call it selfishness, if you want. I’ve no desire to go searching for a new Commander. To say nothing of—” A faint blush rose in her freckled cheeks, and she glanced shyly away. “Well. Never mind. It’s done now. Almost.”

A horned head poked through the much smaller hole in the roof, eerily calm, as if they were all discussing court shoes over tea. “Hey, Cullen. Boss. That last plank should do it.”

Rose gestured with her chin. “See? We all helped. It was a nice change of pace. Fewer giant spiders.”

“Or demons,” Iron Bull added.

“Or swamps,” Rose agreed with an exaggerated shudder that made the magic at her hands shimmer. “I do hate a swamp. There’s no feeling warm and clean again for  _days_ afterward, no matter how many hot baths you soak in. Ready, Bull?”

“Sure thing, Boss. Still on for drinks, later?”

“Still on for  _buying_ your drinks, you mean?” The green glow dimmed and went out, and Rose gave her hands a shake before turning to the last of the beams. “You strike a hard bargain.”

“Could’ve taken me up on the dragon hunt instead.”

With a snort, Rose began to lift the last of the wood toward the roof. “Drinks are cheaper. With less dying.”

“Then you haven’t been drinking in the right places, Boss,” Iron Bull said, retreating once more.

“Maker save me from Ben-Hassrath comedians,” Rose called out. Iron Bull’s answering laugh was followed by the sound of hammering. He knocked twice when he was finished, and the last of Rose’s magic faded away. Even without the aid of lyrium, Cullen felt the shift in the air as the power died. A moment later, the thumping footsteps above went silent.

Before Cullen could speak, Rose shook herself like a wet mabari ridding itself of water, and asked, “Are you upset?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh. It’s… well, it’s only that you look as though someone—me, I guess—just overturned a pile of paperwork you’d just organized. Or moved all the markers on the War Table without telling you. I suppose I should’ve asked, but I knew you’d only say it wasn’t important and put me off.”

“I—” Cullen paused, swallowing. “You’re right, of course. That is exactly what I might’ve said. But I assure you upset is not at all what I’m feeling. I am merely… surprised, perhaps. Touched, certainly. You’ve concerns enough without worrying about something like this.”

She waved a hand airily. “Nonsense. Selfish, I told you. Last time I spent the night, I woke up with one of Leliana’s birds staring at me. Very unnerving. And that’s not even touching on my constant fear of rain. Or snow.” Scuffing her toes against the new carpet, she added, “Also, I… bought a lot of beds in Val Royeaux. A  _lot_ of beds. Seemed a waste not to, uh,  _use_ them.” Her gaze darted to his, stricken. “Not like  _that_. I mean, not  _just_  like that. I mean—”

“Thank you,” Cullen interrupted, stepping close. He settled a hand on her shoulder and was relieved to feel the tension immediately drain from her. “Truly.”

She brightened at once, green eyes sparkling, bouncing a little on her toes. “Shall I show you what we found?”

“We? Should I be alarmed?”

“Not  _too_ alarmed. I watched Sera  _very_ closely. I’m almost certain she didn’t manage to plant any traps. Or lewd literature. I can’t be sure she didn’t draw on something somewhere, though.” With an ease and familiarity that still never failed to catch him off-guard, Rose reached for his hand, twining her slender fingers with his. A gentle tug brought him along behind her dancing steps. With her free hand, she waved at the armchairs and the teetering pile of tomes balanced on the table between them. “Dorian supplied some, Varric the others. I suspect you’ll know which is which. Blackwall did the carving on the wardrobe, and Cassandra found the armor stand. She wanted to give you a practice dummy up here as well, but I said the one downstairs was  _quite_ enough, thank you.”

“It’s all very—”

She spoke over him in a rush. “Cole offered some insight, though I’m not sure I entirely understood him. Something about cookies, and something about dogs, and something about… well. You know how he is. He wanted to put turnips in  _your_ fire, too.”

“I trust you stopped him.”

A corner of her mouth tilted up, showing a hint of dimple. “Does it smell like burning stew in here?”

“Thankfully not. Another reason to thank you.”

Rose reached out, running her fingertips along the edge of a small, high side table. It held a basin and ewer, and stood beneath an almost perfectly clear, likely impossibly expensive looking-glass. A trio of small figurines—a mabari, Andraste, and a warrior with upraised sword—were reflected in the mirror.

“I found them,” she said, though he didn’t ask, touching a fingertip to each in turn. “I thought you might—well. I thought they might suit. Vivienne supplied the glass.” Rose chuckled. “She made that  _face_. I think it was her way of suggesting the Commander of the Inquisition’s army might consider shaving more often.” Rose darted close suddenly, rising on the very tips of her toes, brushing a kiss against his stubbled chin. “Feel free to disregard her. She’s occasionally an  _unbearable_ snob.”

“Only occasionally? She must like you.”

She settled back on her feet and rested her cheek against his chest. He gazed past at her, enjoying the reflection of her pressed so closely against him. “I suppose she means well. I hardly had to beg at all for her help.”

When they turned away from the mirror, Cullen noticed a cup full of flowers on the proper bedside table that now stood where a cloth-draped barrel had been before. “Oh,” he said. “Where did you—how did you—”

“Leliana’s contribution,” Rose explained. “It’s called Andraste’s Grace? She said it grows in Ferelden. She—it was the strangest thing, Cullen. Her eyes went so soft, and her smile… I’ve never seen anything like it. I almost didn’t recognize her.” He said nothing, staring down at the flowers, flooded with memories of his own. Rose’s fingers tightened around his. “I—Maker, you’re not allergic or something, are you? I know I can’t get within half a league of spindleweed without my nose going red and my eyes watering. I can just—we can throw them out the window—”

“No,” he said softly, without looking away from the white blossoms. “No, I’m fond of them. It’s only been… such a long time.” He stepped back, crooking a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face up. Beneath a furrowed brow, her eyes were dark with anxiety, and he pressed a kiss of his own to the tip of her nose. “I do not deserve you.”

“It’s only a little interior decorating.”

“As you say.”

“I’m only sorry there’s no desk,” she added in a lowered voice, cheeks still flushed, pupils so dark almost all the green of her iris was hidden. “No convenient wine bottles to shatter or papers to sweep away.”

Bending close, he pressed his brow to hers, whispering, “We’ll have to make do with what’s at hand.”

“Please,” she said, near breathless, her fingers curling in the fur of his mantle. “Please do.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady.”

Her lips met his halfway, soft and insistent all at once. He followed her lead, backing up as she stepped forward, until his knees hit the side of the bed and buckled. Grinning against his lips, she followed.

“Better?” she whispered.

“Infinitely,” he agreed, reaching up to cup the softness of her cheek in his palm. She leaned into him, closing her eyes.

He did not mean the new mattress or the mended roof. But she did not need to know that. Instead, he only held her close, and thought—ever so briefly, before the warmth of her kisses pulled him away and banished his headache—about how much better he’d sleep with her home again.


End file.
